


May The Wind Be Always At Your Back

by Philo



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-22
Updated: 2013-10-23
Packaged: 2017-12-30 02:52:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1013204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philo/pseuds/Philo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is back.  John and Mary are about to get married.  </p>
<p>This happiness business isn't straightforward, is it?  </p>
<p>Or is it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written pre-Season 3.

The cake tastes glorious. It’s a posh swiss roll, covered in pale coffee-chocolate, crisp and falling off and one little bit has made a mess on his shirt already. He’s tried rubbing it clean with some kitchen towel and now it’s a korma-coloured smear.

Could be anything.

It isn’t.

It’s cake. 

John’s had two pieces and the other end is beckoning him. It’s the best bit, more coating than cake.

Funny how chocolate tastes so good after a drink or two.

Harry will know, if he eats the other end.

She’s not Sherlock, of course, no one is, but it won’t take much deduction to know. 

She’ll forgive him raiding her cupboards and eating her cake. She’s probably bought it in for him: there were two cakes, and she’s always been very careful about what she eats. 

Two pieces could just be one man-sized portion.

But the other end…she’ll know.

He should have gone to stay with a mate, rather than at Harry’s. He really didn’t want to have to talk about it, though, and everyone is asking.

How is he supposed to feel? Sherlock is alive and a giant tit. 

Mary is using his flat as the base for her Hen Night. 

He doesn’t know what to feel, what to do. 

He is drunk.

He despises Harry; he hates that she gives in and can’t control herself. He tries to act as if he’s not disgusted, but it’s always an effort. 

He’s always had the higher moral ground. He likes being there, with his flag planted.

If he eats the cake, she’ll know exactly how much whisky he’s had, whether he hides the bottle or not.

They do have history.

He has willpower.

Drink erodes it. He feels a fleeting glimpse of his father: shrugs it off, him off.

He has no intention of being his father or his sister. The fear of it has been a constant in his life, an underlying knowledge, a _there, but for the grace of my willpower, go I._

Fuck it. He cuts the end of the cake. It tastes good, alive on his tongue with flavour; his guts lurch even before he swallows, his muscles and atoms furious at his betrayal.

He’s so fed up with being reasonable.

He stumbles up and puts the kettle on.

The cake sits heavy in his stomach. He hasn’t drunk enough to throw up. If he had another glass or two, maybe he would.

He hates throwing up.

He pours the boiling water into the mug instead, splashing his hand. The tea bags his sister has are old, and taste foul. She prefers mint tea, or chamomile. Crap that isn’t tea. He stuffs the cake back in its box, looks under the sink for an old plastic bag, shoves the cake in it and throws it in the bin.

Harry is at Mary’s Hen Night: she’ll probably forget she’d bought two cakes. 

He falls asleep sitting upright on the sofa.

 

“You could have punched me,” Sherlock says, looking at him from the chair opposite when he wakes.

“Greg asked me whether I had. I don’t know why anyone would think that would be a sensible reaction to someone saving my life,” John says, wiping his hand over his face. His beard scratches and his mouth tastes vile. God knows, his breath must be hellish. He needs tea.

Sherlock is looking at him.

“I’m surprised you haven’t deduced I need tea,” John says. “I’m sure you’re supposed to be all alert to my every need. Mollifying me.”

“Of course you need tea. I didn’t realise slavery was concomitant to resurrection,” Sherlock says.

John barks a laugh. He can’t help it. He gets up. His knees creak. His back protests. His head is worse. He stumbles into the kitchen, feels the weight of the kettle, and switches it on.

Sherlock might be pretending nothing has changed, but the kettle is full and waiting.

John heads to the loo, does a slash so long that he’s amazed his bladder has held all night. His toothbrush is in his duffel in the spare room, so he sticks some toothpaste onto his finger and scrubs his teeth.

Feeling more human, he washes his face and heads out again.

Sherlock hasn’t moved.

John sighs, makes them both tea and carries it over. Sherlock reaches out a hand for his before John can put it down.

John keeps standing, flexes his back and legs, and takes a good mouthful. It’s hot and wet but the taste of toothpaste can’t disguise that _it isn’t right._

“What did you expect me to do?” Sherlock demands. “I wasn’t going to let you die.”

“No,” says John. “I expect I’m glad about that, now.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow. He opens his mouth, and then shuts it again.

They both drink their tea.

“You aren’t angry with me,” Sherlock says, as if it’s a revelation. “Everyone else is.”

“I’m not angry you saved my life, or that you’re alive,” John says, and he sits down and rests his head back against the sofa cushions as if he can’t support its weight.

Sherlock sips tea. When he speaks, his voice is tight. “What then? Things aren’t the same.”

John huffs a laugh.

“What?”

John sits up, picks up his tea again.

Sherlock is fed up with the tea. It’s an assault weapon.

“Nothing is ever the same. You should know that.”

“Yes, but it should be _better_. I did the right thing. I saved you. I saved Mrs Hudson –“

“God!”

Sherlock shuts up. 

John gets up and heads into the kitchen, rooting around in the bread bin. He sticks two slices into the toaster.

Sherlock stands, lurking at the edge of the space where the sitting room becomes the kitchen. 

John hunts in the fridge and appears with Flora Lightest and Marmite.

Sherlock hates butter substitutes. So does John; at least, he did. Sherlock’s not surprised Harry has nothing else.

The toaster pings.

“John,” Sherlock says. His body is too tall, his arms too long. He’s conscious of his hands at his sides, his fists fighting the urge to clench.

John spreads spread and Marmite on both pieces, and shoves the plate towards Sherlock.

He’s cut the bread in halves, but used one plate.

Sherlock knows a peace offering when he sees one. He picks up a piece and takes a bite.

John walks back to the sofa with the plate. Whilst his back is turned, he says, “I’m disappointed, Sherlock.”

The toast coats Sherlock’s mouth, clumping against his palate, dry and obstructive. Bitter.

“I – ”

“Not with you – well, only partly with you,” John snaps. He bites, chews, swallows it down with the dregs of his tea. 

Cold, Sherlock deduces from the wince. He forces himself to wait.

“I’m disappointed that I hadn’t done – that you – that you didn’t trust me – “

“It wasn’t a matter of trust – ”

“Yes, it was,” John says flatly.

“You don’t understand – ”

“No,” John says, and his voice is unwavering, “ _you_ don’t. I was a soldier. You don’t understand what that means, over and above that I can shoot and kill and run around after you. You don’t know what it means to work as a team, to live as a team, to rely on each other to survive.”

“The Services would be unlikely to take me – ” Sherlock says dismissively.

“Let’s not start with the clever,” John says. He purses his mouth in the way that he does when he’s biting back words. He straightens his shoulders, and Sherlock knows what that means too. He finds himself copying the motion, except he feels like he’s stretching out, thinning.

“We can leave this here. It depends what you want,” John says.

Sherlock’s pulse is kicking up a gear; normally, it’s a feeling he welcomes, a physical sign of the thrill.

He doesn’t feel thrilled.

“No,” he says. “Tell me,” he adds, just to make sure John knows it isn’t a rejection of him, but of _leaving it here_.

John nods, and then leaves the room, running up the stairs. 

Sherlock waits.

When John comes back, he has his electric razor in hand and is running it over his cheek. He is already thinking ahead, to when Sherlock isn’t here. Sherlock grits his teeth.

“I feel at fault,” John says, his voice incongruously loud as he pitches it above the motor’s buzz. “I made an assumption that we were a team, and that you and I were operating on the same principle. You’re a civilian: I should have realised that you really didn’t understand.”

A dozen sentences come into Sherlock’s mind. “You couldn’t have feigned being that upset,” he says.

“No,” John agrees, and Sherlock is relieved that he doesn’t have to argue about that. 

“Perhaps I wouldn’t have been that upset,” John says, his chin jutting as he runs the razor underneath.

“You would; by all accounts, you were,” Sherlock says, sharper than he wants.

“Perhaps people would have assumed that they had, after all, made a mistake about our relationship,” John says. He’s looking around the room, spots the magnetic mini mirror on the fridge, and heads towards it.

Sherlock‘s brain feels wrong; there’s a void full of grasping fingertips, scratching on nothing, sharp and painful all the same.

“They saw us together all the time and assumed we were lovers,” John spells it out. “If I hadn’t appeared sufficiently grief stricken to satisfy their expectations at the loss of my life partner, they perhaps might have deduced – ”

Sherlock snorts. He doesn’t mean to interrupt John’s flow: it’s habit to dismiss the deductive abilities of the masses. 

The unsettled feeling in his stomach feels worse, not better.

John just looks at him.

“The paid guns would have deduced that I wasn’t dead. And then they’d have killed you.” Sherlock flings himself back in the armchair.

“…or perhaps,” John continues mildly, “they might have deduced the truth,” he says.

Sherlock’s eyes narrow.

“…that we were friends and colleagues.” John pauses a beat. “Or that, we’re, you know, British. Uptight. Don’t believe in public displays of emotions and grief.”

“You would have acted differently if you’d known – ”

“If I’d known,” John snarls, “do you think I would have let you jump off a fucking roof?”

His voice has risen to shouting levels. He reins himself in, turns away.

Sherlock can see that his hand is shaking. It is not the one that usually has the tremor. Is it? His mind feels unaccountably confused.

“You prepared yourself to jump off that roof: made all the arrangements. You couldn’t have known you’d have to; you couldn’t have known that I’d be back in time to see it. If I hadn’t watched you – if I hadn’t seen it – ”

“It helped when I saw you get out of the cab. I knew it was worth doing then. Police found evidence of a gunman opposite – ”

“And what? He knew I was coming? He was more likely there to shoot you than me,” John says. “Even fucking Moriarty couldn’t have expected you to off yourself in front of me – at least, if he’d wanted that, he would have set it up.”

Sherlock doesn’t know what to say. It’s patently true. Why hasn’t he considered that?

“What is bothering me here, Sherlock, is not that you were so bloody cruel, but that you didn’t trust me – ”

“I explained – ”

“What? That you couldn’t trust _me_ , but were willing to trust Molly and your homeless lot and whoever drove that bloody laundry lorry and probably half of Barts, from the sound of it. You thought it was perfectly manageable for them to conceal the truth, but not me?”

“No-one was watching them!”

“He went out with Molly to get to you the first time!”

“Yes, but he knew I knew that, so – ”

“Jesus, Sherlock, you gambled with her safety?”

“It was all a gamble, wasn’t it?” Sherlock snapped. “It wasn’t possible for me to know exactly what he’d do - ”

“No, it wasn’t, was it?” John’s hands are on his hips.

Sherlock grinds to a halt. “You don’t think I’d thought through all the options? Weighed all the factors – ?”

“No, I don’t think you did,” John says, and now he’s crowding into Sherlock’s space, his finger is actually jabbing Sherlock in the chest, “because you didn’t factor me in, did you?”

“It was all about you!” Sherlock yells.

There is a sharp moment of silence. John steps back. “No, no it wasn’t,” he says. He cocks his head.

Sherlock knows that look; it means John is wondering if he can make him understand something.

“You wanted to beat him. You felt more up against the wall than you normally do, because you’re normally in control. And yes, I do appreciate that you really did take my safety into account. Mrs Hudson’s, of course. Greg. Moriarty knew you well to know that you’re fond of him, you know. It hardly shows, does it?”

“What are you saying?”

“What I’m saying, Sherlock, is when you’re up against the wall, I want to be leaning against it with you, not hiding behind it.”

“It’s not that simple – you don’t see – ”

“What your giant brain does; yes, we all know about that. What you don’t see, is that _I am on your team, and you are on mine_. We could – _you should_ – have discussed your plans. Because then we would have chosen to do something fucking different than that stupid fucking travesty of a plan!”

Sherlock finds that his heart is pounding. He has wondered – he’s thought – whilst he’d been away – “Such as?” He can’t keep the sarcasm from his tone. It’s defensive, he knows. He doesn’t need to defend himself from John, but he can’t help it.

“Such as I’d put a bullet through his brain.”

Sherlock is so shocked that words fail him. “You’re too moral,” he says, at last.

John laughs. “I didn’t say I’d like it.”

“It wasn’t like the cabbie -”

“No? Because the cabbie had you at gunpoint? Because you were a profound idiot then too, but I could forgive you that, because you didn’t know you had me then. Not enough to know that you could trust me to back you up. After that night, I sort of assumed you knew that. How did I get that wrong, Sherlock?”

“I – we’re – that’s not us,” Sherlock flails. “We’re not – we don’t deliberately kill – ”

The snort John makes is horrible. “I didn’t think this was us, either. You going and killing _yourself_. You going and _pretending_ you killed yourself. You treating me like a fucking victim that has to be saved. Where is that us, Sherlock? When did I become a maiden in distress to your noble knight? I have bloody skills too, you know, and believe it or not, I didn’t get into medicine without some semblance of a brain. It might only have tiny ideas, but sometimes they’re better than the crap yours comes up with.”

Sherlock can feel a tic in his jaw. It’s a new feeling; he’s never had a tic. “I didn’t have much time to plan.”

“No, because you let him push you into it. You let him get to you. And you didn’t think that I could help you with that. You didn’t even _entertain_ the thought that I might have some idea what to do with him. And yes, I understand we’re not Batman and Robin, and I’m sure Sally Donovan is likely to have a seizure at knowing that your actions are governed by a morality hitherto imperceptible to her – hell, Anderson’s never recovered, according to Greg, from realising that you topped yourself to save others. Not because he thought you were dead, of course, but because it meant he really was _wrong_ about you. So I’m not saying that I think we should be vigilantes, but I’d rather have shot that sick fuck and gone to prison for it than the stupid option you took.”

John is – that would be ridiculous. Instead he says, “Shooting him wouldn’t have destroyed his network – ”

“No. We could have had fun doing that together.”

Sherlock feels such a profound longing for that – for a past which didn’t happen, for all the times, since he jumped, when he’d wished John had been beside him, when he could have laughed and giggled and shared what happened, when it could have been exciting, rather than fearful drudgery, that he almost misses what John says next.

“…or not done that at all.”

“What? I had to take down his network – ”

“Why?” John folds his arms across his chest. “If we’d cut him off before he set up the assassin gits, why would you have had to take down his network?”

“Someone might have come after us for revenge – ”

“That’s something we’ve always had to worry about. Why was he different? It’d probably be _less_ likely with bloody Moriarty. Unless he had a lover, a family member who gave a shit about him, why would they? Any of his workers would be glad to take over the bloody organisation, or the cogs in charge of all the component parts would be glad to get his sticky fingers out of it, to make their own profit. Who do you think gave a shit whether he lived or died?”

“Do you know how many criminals have been arrested – ”

“I’m sure you did a bloody good job of it,” John interrupts, implacable, “and you’re avoiding my question.” He waits a second, and then adds, gently, “It didn’t have to happen that way, Sherlock. If you’d trusted me.”

Sherlock swallows. He feels like he’s a horse; he’d been wearing blinkers. He’d chosen to wear them, to see only the path he’d set himself on, so that he could get back. To London. To his old life. To John. “You’re getting married,” he says.

John strolls into the kitchen. Something has relaxed in his shoulders.

“I am,” he says. “Murray is going to be my best man,” he adds, as he flicks the kettle on again. “Wedding’s next week; Friday, 10am. Mrs Hudson will be grateful if you bring her along.”

It’s an invitation. 

“At least you won’t be chasing after women all the time for sex,” Sherlock says disdainfully.

“Very true,” John grins. 

Sherlock can tell from the loose way John holds himself – despite the hangover – that he is getting an inordinate amount of sex and is very happy with it. 

At which point, the door opens and Harry and Mary appear.

Sherlock has not met Mary. She is even shorter than John, slim and fit. 

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock says.

John snorts a laugh, and adds more water to the kettle.

“Afghanistan, of course,” Sherlock continues, warmed by John’s response. “You didn’t meet John there.”

“No,” she says, “or he’d have never met you. I’d have nabbed him straight up.”

John grins. His whole face is alight.

Sherlock cannot compete.

“I’ve got cake,” Harry says. “It’s from Marks and Sparks.”

Sherlock sees the tension in John’s shoulders as she heads to the cupboard. 

“Jesus, John,” she says, “I can’t believe you haven’t touched it. I bought two as well.” She takes both out. “Apricot or cappuccino?” she asks. There are brand new boxes of both.

John’s eyes meet Sherlock’s. Sherlock blinks in acknowledgment. Under the pretext of dumping the tea bags, John looks in the bin. Sherlock has already removed the remains of the cake John had put in there. John glances quickly around the room, then back at Sherlock. The bottle of whisky is nowhere in sight.

Sherlock catches Mary watching him.

The tea and cake are loaded onto a tray, and they settle in the sitting room. Sherlock zones out as the Hen Night is discussed, until Mary turns to him and asks, “Where are you going to live now you’re back? Have you found somewhere yet?”

“Mrs Hudson says the tenants in 221B gave her notice yesterday,” he says. His eyes narrow. “Where are you two going to live? Married quarters?”

“Hell no,” she says. “I like to get away from it all when I’m home, thanks very much.”

“Are you going to live in John’s flat?” He’s only been there the once, and he knows she hasn’t moved in properly. It’s also tiny.

“The rooms at the back of 221C aren’t damp like the front room,” she says. “With my salary, and if John picks up some locum work, we could afford it.”

John sits forward. Sherlock can feel the surprise radiating from him, but Mary is looking at him, not John. Sherlock’s heart thumps again. Perhaps he is developing an arrhythmia. What is she _doing_?

“Martha can’t afford to sort out the front room, and neither could we at the moment,” she says. “There’s a good big kitchen, though, retro, real,” she turns to Harry, “all formica and yellow and orange. Hideous; I like it.”

Harry laughs, and John grins. Sherlock just wants Mary to get on. He’s seen 221C, they surely aren’t – 

“There’s steps up to the garden as well,” she goes on, “and Martha says we could use it; it’s more of a patio, but there are nice old brick walls and we could move the bins out of sight and there’s enough room for a table and chairs: it’ll be lovely in summer. We’d have to use the back room as the bedroom though, and we couldn’t live in the kitchen all the time. It depends if the new tenant above might be willing to share their sitting room,” she says, looking back at Sherlock. “I’m away a lot, but I like to be able to put my feet up when I’m around. John says it’s really comfy in there, and there’s plenty of room. We could share the two rents between three of us, if you didn’t want to get another flatmate, Sherlock.”

Sherlock cannot believe what she is offering. He cannot believe the joy on John’s face, either, but it’s there. He swallows, and looks at John. “You work full-time at the hospital. Why would you consider locum work?” and then curses himself for creating barriers.

“Because trying to see him when I’m back is a nightmare,” Mary answers. “And John wants to write. And now you’re back I’m sure he’ll want to work with you again, stupid. Anyway, we’ve talked about locum work several times, haven’t we?” she looks across at John, smiling, supportive. “It doesn’t pay as much all in all, but the trade-off for the flexibility is worth it. What with that, and my salary, and if you get some cases between you that pay decent money, well, it’ll be enough, won’t it?”

“You – you are a marvel. Come here,” John says, and pulls her forward so he can kiss her across the coffee table.

She’s so down to earth and practical that Sherlock can see why John has fallen for her. She also has tight small breasts, which he knows gets John hot under the collar, judging from his memory of John’s previous girl-friends and porn preferences.

John will have sex down in 221C and Sherlock will not have to listen to John’s bed springs squeaking above him or wait for the loo while John masturbates in the shower. John will not spend hours trying to woo women into his arms.

On the other hand, John and Mary might canoodle on the sofa in their living room.

He looks at them kissing now. He’ll be able to ignore it, if he’s busy at his microscope. They’ve stopped already.

 _Their_ living room; belonging to all three of them.

Sherlock knows a gift when he sees it. Mary will be away for long periods and John will live with him upstairs. He won’t have to clear away his experiments, and if John moans he’ll tell him to cook downstairs. He’ll have the fridge to himself.

He might keep a bit of milk in.

John will be happy.

Mary is military, and understands about _the team_. She is including him in hers.

Sherlock likes being the brightest and best, but he also likes learning, finding out, _understanding_.

“I think we’ll manage,” he says, and doesn’t mention the rather staggering amount in his bank account these days. He gets up. “Thank you for the tea, Harriet. You might like to buy some new tea bags if you want John to visit again. Tetleys, for preference. Although I wouldn’t expect him again anytime soon. ”

“What? What do you mean by that?” Harry demands.

“Sherlock,” John says warningly.

Sherlock marvels at how Harry will always jump to belligerence, whereas John aims to calm.

“I only meant that newly-weds are known to have other things on their mind, rather than sibling visits, if popular culture is to be believed,” he says mildly, and strides over to fetch his coat from the kitchen chair. He shrugs it on, and ties his scarf around his neck, before turning back to the cork-board on the kitchen wall, and tugging off a card that is pinned on it.

“Hey!” Harry says sharply. “Clara gave me that.”

“‘Love never means having to say you’re sorry’, he reads aloud. “Who comes up with this drivel? This card is _demanding_ you apologise, and if you didn’t know that there really is no hope for you.”

“Huh,” Mary says. “Kettle: black?”

Everyone turns to look at Sherlock.

“I was just getting round to that,” he says, but he’s pleased with Mary. She doesn’t beat about the bush, and he understands the things she says. He strides over to John, who’s now standing. They’re all standing.

“For what it’s worth, I’m not sorry that you’re alive, but I am sorry that you weren’t with me. And I’m sorry you think I didn’t trust you. You and Mary can try and show me what you mean, can’t you?”

John’s inspection of his face is thorough. “You mean it,” he says at last, then adds, “I wonder how long that will last?” His cynicism is rather negated by the happiness that is already radiating from him. 

“Bloody hell,” Harry says. “My uptight brother in a ménage à trois.” 

“If you could stop thinking you were Bohemian purely because you’re a lesbian,” Sherlock says to her, “you might be slightly less tedious. Or not.”

“We’ll try and show you how to be less of a prick as well,” Mary says, and John snorts.

“Good luck with that,” Harry says, and John shares a grin with her; it’s a huge relief that he can. Despite everything, they have history. Not all of it is bad. 

Sherlock strides to the door, twirls round. “Come on, then,” he says, “I’ll text Mrs Hudson to expect us.”


	2. Chapter 2

Harry is in heaven and hell, and they’re the same place.

She bites back a smile, because there’s nothing like being overly dramatic. The AA tell you to keep away from places like The George, where she’s sitting now. It’s fair to say that a lot of her drinking had started in places like these – in situations like these, with a lot of women sitting round, drinking and laughing.

She loves it: the atmosphere, the clinking of glasses, the noise, the camaraderie; even the stench of spilt beer ingrained in the carpet calls to something deep within her, revulsion and pleasure mixed. And what isn’t to like, sitting with a group of women fitter than any she’d ever met in her life? A glass of lime and soda in hand, and the world hasn’t come to an end. 

Harry is coming to terms with Mary; for some reason, she’d always thought John would end up with someone medical - another doctor, a nurse, physio, a radiographer, whatever. At least, she’d thought that until he’d met Sherlock.

She hasn’t ever understood her brother’s relationship with Sherlock Holmes. John had always been so _straight_. 

The thing is, as far as she knows, John and Sherlock’s relationship wasn’t sexual. She’d asked him, of course: John had told her to fuck off.

That might have had something to do with the fact that she’d been drunk and deliberately trying to provoke him at the time. It was just hard to get her head round that her brother might be bi. He’d always seemed so boring in that department. 

Not that they’d discussed sex; not since their teens, anyway, when she’d made sure to give him the necessary on not being a selfish dick and how to please women. He hadn’t told her to fuck off then, to be fair, even though, thinking back, she’d probably been drunk and trying to provoke him that time too. He’d actually just taken her up on it and asked questions. It was probably the most intimate conversation they’d ever had. 

There were a lot of conversations that they hadn’t had, of course – though a lot of conversations didn’t need words. Conversations about their father, silent messages passing around the bulk of his persona, survival in every blink.

She might have had a drink problem, but at least she wasn’t a threatening drunk. If she ever came to that she’d top herself.

Mary is laughing with the girl next to her – Frankie. Frankie’s in a different mould to the others – bosomy; probably a size 16; vivacious with an infectious laugh. Harry’s eyes keep being drawn to her cleavage. She’s sort of repulsed by the movement of it, the swollenness of it, and yet it’s somehow luscious.

She’s never really felt comfortable in her own body. When she was thirteen, Auntie Jo had told her not to worry about a bit of puppy fat, she’d grow out of it. After that, the dieting had begun, the sneaking away to the loo or kitchen sink to spit out half-chewed food. By the time she was fourteen, she’d known the calories of everything; she’d known to choose Edam over cheddar, never to touch avocadoes or orange juice, to leave the chicken skin. How to get drunk with the least amount of calories too.

She still ate chocolate sometimes and spat the thick, gorgeous mouthful of it down the plug hole. She’d had the taste; unlike with the booze, she didn’t want the effects.

She’d given up AA – she really couldn’t get on with all that higher power stuff, let alone the total abstention for life thing. She’d gone through the whole programme, made her letters of amends, and didn’t regret any of it. It had trained her into knowing how to live as a sober person, and she was thankful for that, for the support of her sponsor, for the acceptance she’d found from the others. She knew they probably felt sad for her now she’d quit – one or two of them probably prayed for her, but it really wasn’t what they thought. She’d got what she needed from it. She wasn’t one for lifelong commitment; Clara had shown her that.

She's in better shape than they’d probably like to think, though that might just be her being bitchy. Most of the them were alright. Maybe being teetotal was the way for them, but it isn’t for her. She’d never been one to be in the bottle every night, it was just that she’d been unable to control the drinking once she’d started. A binge drinker. She’d always been able to go several days without a drink, even a week or two. It’s times like this, she thinks, looking round, that she’d found difficult. When everyone else is drinking. She’d always been the one to start first – usually at home, with a bottle of vodka – she and Em had started that off, when they were fourteen. The booze had given her courage.

Tonight, it doesn’t take courage to come out to a do like this and not drink. She wouldn’t have been able to do it as a teenager, or even in her twenties, but not-drinking has crept into society, hasn’t it, like not-smoking. She still smokes. She has an addictive personality, no two ways about it. She’s always liked being a little bit of a rebel, a bit on the wild side. Strange, really, that she’d thought smoking was wild – it was the opposite, wasn’t it? It constrained you, rather than freed you. On the other hand, nowadays the smoking really irritated people. She quite liked that; liked too the camaraderie of the people who did still smoke. If she couldn’t have the drink, at least she had that; there was a joy to sitting outside huddled round a heater together: cold night air, the circle of warmth under the heater, the feel of the smoke burning down into her lungs, the acceptance of smokers, the fire of a neat whisky scorching down her throat.

On a night like this it’s easier to drink nothing. This is her worst case scenario. Hot women, lots of laughter and drinking…

She used to feel quite relieved not to be able to remember too much about the night before. It was when friends laughed over events, even things she’d done, and they didn’t ring any bells at all, that she’d felt the first tendrils of worry. She’d shrugged it off, of course. 

It hadn’t been Clara’s disappointment – it should have been, but it wasn’t - it had been when a potential client, at a meeting in front of one of the partners, declined to have her dealing with her case, on the grounds that they _knew_ each other, that it had finally struck home. She had no recollection of the woman, even when she’d recounted their night together to her in vivid detail in the loos. The woman wasn’t stupid, either: she’d joined the dots. Harry remembers the disgust on her face. She tries to remember it every time she’s tempted.

John still thinks she’s an alcoholic. He probably always will. Doctors are notoriously single-minded about such crap.

“Hey,” one of the group comes back from the bar and edges herself in next to her, throwing half a dozen packets of crisps down on the table. “Help yourselves, ladies.” She picks one up, pulling the packet open and offering one to Harry. “You’re John’s sister, yeah?”

“”That’s me,” Harry says. She never wants a whole packet, but a single crisp is perfect. She likes the woman instantly; she’s good to look at too. “I’m sorry, Jen, was it?”

“Jude,” Jude says. “I’m hopeless at names – I hate it when there’s a big group.”

“But you know everyone here?” Harry asks. “You’re in the same unit?”

“Yup, apart from Mary’s cousin over there,” she tilts her head towards Frankie. “Feeling a bit out of it? We can be a rowdy crowd.”

“I like a bit of noise. You seem a nice enough bunch,” Harry smiles.

“I don’t know about nice,” Jude says. “We’ve known each other a while. Most of us met in basic training. Good bonding.”

Harry nods. John had said much the same, although when push had come to shove, when he was first back, injured and dazed, he hadn’t called on his mates to help him out, had he?

“So, what’s the inside track on Sherlock Holmes, then?” Jude asks, sitting back, sipping her wine.

“He’s back?”

Jude snorts. “Fair enough. I was hoping for a bit more…insider info?”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Harry says, because there isn’t. John hadn’t talked to her about Sherlock when he was alive, let alone dead. Let alone resurrected.

Jude leans towards her. “Really?” She glances down the table at Mary, and then says, voice low, “When he turned up last week I thought the marriage might be off. Always thought they were together. I mean, that’s what the papers implied. No offence.”

“Why should I be offended?” Harry asks, bristling.

“No, don’t be like that, I’m queer myself,” Jude says. “You too, from the way you’ve checked everyone out. Just thought it ran in the family, maybe. My sister’s gay too.”

“Seriously?” Harry is diverted, outrage laid to rest. She hadn’t clocked Jude for gay; maybe her gaydar is failing; maybe it’s hard to tell among a group of soldiers: there’s something strong and uniform about the women. 

“Yeah, I think it helped her that I’d come out first, but yeah. It’s great, really.”

“Wow,” Harry says, wondering how she would have felt if she’d had a sister to share things with, and whether she would have found it cool or irritating. “How did your parents take it?”

“They got over it,” Jude says easily. “They’re nice parents.”

“Wow,” Harry says again, “must be.” 

“So…Sherlock Holmes. I don’t really know anything about him, just the headlines. We were away on deployment when all that stuff happened. Maybe that made it easier for Mary and John to hit it off.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, when she first told me she’d met this guy, she didn’t really know anything about all that business, you know? I mean, _I’d_ followed the papers about Sherlock Holmes a bit – I’d even read some of your brother’s blog – but Mary hadn’t – not enough that the name John Watson meant anything to her when she first met him, anyway. I didn’t connect it up till they’d been seeing each other for a couple of weeks.”

“Is _Mary_ worried that John will ditch her now?” Harry asks. John’s fiancée didn’t seem to be exuding any worry. “John’s not like that.”

“Well, it would hardly be his fault, would it? The guy came back from the dead. What’s he supposed to do?”

“They’re not like that,” Harry says, because they weren’t. Were they?

Jude nods. “Fair enough. I’m glad for Mary, anyway. I’ve only met your brother a couple of times, but he seems a great guy.”

“Yeah, he is,” Harry says, and wishes she didn’t feel that people liking John was a criticism of her. 

 

Mary watches Harry talk to Jude. She doesn’t know Harry that well, and hadn’t known how she’d find the evening. Harry herself had told her that she’d had a problem with drinking in the past, so she was a bit worried that Harry might find starting in a pub something she’d rather not do. They were going to the Indian in a bit, but people will drink there too. Harry doesn’t seem to be drinking, though, so that’s one less thing to worry about.

Sherlock has knocked all other worries into orbit. He’s a pall over the wedding plans; all her joy has been washed out of them.

She hasn’t even met him yet. She’s seen all the pictures in the paper, of course. The pictures of Sherlock and John together. The speculation. The comments about John’s forthcoming wedding, and whether Sherlock is going to be best man – as if anyone left giving a mate that job till a week before the big day. 

Ever since Sherlock got back she’s been waiting for John to call it off. Not that he’d ever implied that sort of relationship between Sherlock and himself – the comments he’d made about the press coverage, when she’d first learnt that he, her John, was the one who was with the detective – had pretty much indicated that it was all a load of codswallop – but then Sherlock had returned.

For the last week, John has been a robot. They’d spent the previous weekend with her parents, finalising details, and he’d been, as ever, unfailingly polite and charming, but he’d sidestepped her mother’s questions about Sherlock with the merest, “Yes, it was a bit of a surprise that he was alive after all.” And when her father had pushed him a bit, in the way her father couldn’t resist pushing anything, John had just said that yes, he was sure he and Sherlock would have a good chat about it sometime. She isn’t usually scared to bring things up, but they’ve had one brief conversation, almost nothing. She’s been kidding herself that she’s been giving John time. She’s been kidding herself that the papers had made something out of nothing.

Mary had not known Sherlock, and she hadn’t known John when Sherlock had died. It was her friends who’d sent her links to articles about the pair of them, to John’s now defunct blog. Sherlock wasn’t someone they’d discussed – John had mentioned in passing things about his life with Sherlock, in the same way that he’d mentioned student house experiences when he was younger, or something that had happened in Afghanistan.

The latter was something she could relate to, to share with him. She’d never imagined she’d marry a soldier – she rates anyone who’s been a soldier still a soldier, because the things you learn – the discipline, the shared life – stay with you forever, if her father is anything to judge by. She recognises the soldier in John.

She also recognises shock, and grief. She’s seen it. Lived it. She knows what she’s looking at. She knows the difference between losing someone who’s a colleague and losing a friend.

She’s never lost a lover, and she isn’t going to start now.

 

The next morning, Mary follows Harry into her flat.

The first thing she sees is the smile on John’s face, the loose drop of his shoulders. The second thing is the man who’s put them there: Sherlock Holmes in the flesh.

She cannot compete.

She sees Sherlock looking at her, and she straightens a little, military discipline holding her together. Has Sherlock spent the night here with John?

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock asks, and John laughs. 

The sound is so relaxed, so unlike anything that has come out of John’s mouth in the last week.

Ever.

Sherlock is almost glowing, soaking up its warmth.

Mary is a fighter, and John is worth fighting for. She gets her feet back under her, and goes on the offensive.

To her surprise, and delight, John laughs even harder, and his face is full of joy.

It’s aimed at her.

Suddenly, everything settles into place.

Harry offers cake. Mary watches the by-play between the two men. She doesn’t understand it all, but she can see Sherlock watching and she can see John’s sudden tension slide into relief. That’s all she needs to know.

She’s used to having to make snap decisions, to assessing facts quickly – even to having to make choices with incomplete information. It’s what makes her a good officer. Growing up in a military family has taught her that life is unpredictable, and to grab it with both hands and _live_ it. Growing up in a military family has also taught her what life is like for those left behind: what it was like for her mother when her father was away for months on end: the banked-down worry, the underlying loneliness, the need for a life of one’s own.

Mary can’t believe how glad she is that Martha Hudson had shown her around the house while John had nipped out to get a new light fitting for the flickering bulb in her kitchen. Martha had obviously been keen to have John back, but when Mary had mentioned that the tenants of 221B were trying to buy a house, and the flat might become vacant, John had blocked the suggestion with barely a word. 

She takes a gamble.

It pays off.

Moments later, John is kissing her. Underneath the tea and toothpaste is the tang of something – whisky, probably, she thinks, though she knows John went to the pub with Murray the previous evening to watch the football, so there was probably a good bit of beer too. She probably doesn’t taste much different herself.

Sherlock moves in a flurry of sweeping coat and scarf, accepting her offer, insulting Harry and sweeping them along in his wake. The sorry thing gets her, though, and she calls him on it. His apology is surprisingly charming.

John is happy. His joy in what their life might be is radiant. She feels pretty happy herself, that she’s made the right choice.

“Bloody hell,” Harry says. “My uptight brother in a ménage à trois.”

Mary wants to kick her for her crassness. On the other hand, she isn’t incorrect. They will be three of them, living as a whole, a family. And if the future brings other possibilities, other ways to strengthen their happiness – well, the future is only another day, as her mother always says. One step at a time.

 

Harry shuts the door behind the three of them, and heads back into the sitting room, picking up cups and plates.

Sherlock always riled her, but then, that was pretty much his way with everybody.

Except – Mary had held her own pretty well there.

She doesn’t know whether to feel miffed or relieved. Mary had more balls than she did, suggesting that set up over at Baker St. John’s face flits across her mind, though; his happiness. She grins. She certainly doesn’t have to worry about him any more – between Sherlock providing the excitement and Mary the solid ground, he’ll have everything he needs.

She loads the dishwasher and throws the remains of the apricot cake in the bin. She flicks the kettle on, cuts the remaining chocolaty end off the cappuccino one, bins the rest of it, then pulls her phone from her pocket and rings the number Jude had typed into it the previous night.


End file.
